Sale état

It smells like asphalt after rain and tobacco when the city is asleep, but my thoughts are not. Everything seems to be like everyone else's: money, work, dreams of “a home in my homeland,” but inside there is a dent, like on the hood of a car after a collision. They mend their hearts as best they can: with jokes, rhymes, smoke from the window. There is no room for complaints here, only a slight weariness with a world where you can't always “manger.” Just a person who understood too much too early - and is now learning to trust again, at least in himself.